


Little by Little, But Not Too Much

by theyalwayssay



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: AU, F/M, Road Trips, but that day is not today, someday I'll be able to not write an AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:39:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyalwayssay/pseuds/theyalwayssay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As you drive, you see a large blue van in front of you. Poking over the headrests of the two seats is a cloud of curly blonde hair and a slick dark tuft behind the wheel. They seem to be laughing. You turn off onto your exit, but the van keeps driving, off into the horizon, before vanishing without a trace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little by Little, But Not Too Much

It was cold outside. But then again, it was always cold outside, unless it was broiling outside. There was no in between in this damn town. And no matter the weather, she was always cold.

She had been in the garage longer than she had been in a long while, the crisp wind biting into her neck and cheeks. She pulled her sweater over her red skin, scowling. It was one thing to be unwillingly touched by others, but it was a sad world when even the weather couldn’t keep its hands off. She was surprised that she hadn’t been sent inside already. Normally the loud music that she would play on the ancient jukebox that her dad had fixed up to drown out the sounds of the neighborhood and her thoughts would send the neighbors running to tell on her. But no one appeared, not a soul ventured into the streets, as though the whole place had died at once. She pushed back an impending mass of blonde curls that threatened to slip out from behind her ear over her eyes. There were crickets chirping in the twilight.

Her boots squeaked slightly as she sat back on her heels, observing her work. She picked up the silver duct tape by her toes and tore off one last piece, ripping with her teeth and sticking it to the metal frame. Done at last.

She wheeled the bicycle out onto the pavement took a running start, leaping into the seat and slipping her feet into the pedals with ease. As she rode, she kept her eyes on the framework, marveling at how such an ugly device could be so easily improved with the addition of battery-powered fairy lights.

She rode with ease down the quiet street as the loud music playing on the jukebox faded away into crickets. The only light on the street came from the streetlamps passing overhead and the traveling cloud of firefly-like lights beneath her. Her breath came raw in her throat, her nostrils cold and numb. Her hair flew behind her like golden butterflies, and there was not a sound in the world to her, as though her ears had gone deaf, although in truth they were only numb. The houses flashed by like the eyes of little animals, scurrying away from her vision into the night.

She let her mind wander, but it only seemed to arrive again and again on the fantastical. A tall woman standing on the edge of a rocky moor, her long black hair flying behind her like a pennant, her dress made entirely of moss, the boning of her corset strips of tree bark. A little girl in a pink forest reaching for a beehive made of candy floss. A man in a suit woven of night, the twinkling of the stars on his tie reflected in his eyes, grey as the moon. Such was the magic of the silence, of the night, of the lights.

The Beatles. Why were the Beatles playing? She slowed down, looking around for the source of the music. A large square of yellow caught her eye, and she hopped the curb, gliding towards the source of the light.

A large van sat in the middle of the drive, the ugliest dark blue van she’d ever seen, with a tacky mural of planets plastered on the side. It wasn’t until she got closer that she noticed the sound of work mingling with the music coming from the speakers inside the garage.

The bottom half of a person poked out from underneath the van, one leg bent as they worked on the underside of the car. Without thinking, she nudged her boot into their side.

A teenage boy slid out from underneath the van, his eyes wide in surprise. His dark hair was slicked back away from his forehead, a shock of blue mingling with the dark brown. He wore a plain white shirt that was covered in car grease, and did nothing to cover the numerous tattoos on his arms. Her nose wrinkled slightly. She’d never been a fan of tattoos.

“Can I help you?” he asked, after what seemed like years of them staring awkwardly at each other. She searched around in her head for something to say.

“You’re wearing a bow tie,” she finally said. And it was true. It stood out like a bruise, all red and big and shiny, like it was made of cheap satin. Costume shop satin bow tie. While working on a car.

He glanced across the street. “And your bicycle has lights on it,” he replied. “That is your bicycle, right?”

She nodded. He peered up into her face. He had blue eyes.

“You’re also crying.”

“No, I’m not,” she replied. She swiped a hand across her cheek, and it came back damp. “It was cold. The wind makes my eyes water.”

The boy stared at her for a moment longer, as though he were thinking of something to say. He glanced away.

“So, did you come for the music?” he gestured towards the garage, the screwdriver still in his hand.

“I don’t like the Beatles,” she said. By God, what a stupid thing to reply with. “I mean…I don’t know what I mean. I’ve just never liked them. Where do you go to school?” it just kept getting better and better.

“I don’t go to school.”

“What, never?”

“I travel.”

“Where do you travel to?”

“Everywhere.”

She huffed. “How specific of you. Did you go alone?”

He nodded. “I went with a few friends though. But mainly alone.”

“Are you going somewhere now?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

It was cold. Her breath came in great clouds, like a fat dragon. A fat, purple dragon that couldn’t fly.

“That doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”

“I always have plans.” He made to slide back under the car, then stopped, looking slightly troubled. “Except for right now.”

“What’s your name?” she asked, watching as he slid back underneath the van, her arms crossed in front of her to conserve warmth.

“Uh…John Smith,” he replied.

“Is it really?”

“No.”

“Then why don’t you tell me your real name?”

“Because that would spoil the mystery of the whole thing,” he replied, sounding affronted. “I am and will always be a man of mystery, even when questioned by a girl on a glowing bike. Which, I might add, is a bit of an odd thing to see.”

“It’s not that odd,” she said quietly, glancing back towards the bicycle, still propped against a lamppost. “I think it looks cool.”

“Of course it does, it looks brilliant!” came the response. “Odd doesn’t mean bad. So, what about you? Do you have a name?”

“Of course I have a name.”

“Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“It’s River Song.”

“River Song, that is a much better name than John Smith,” John replied. “I tip my metaphorical hat to you. So, do you want to come?”

“Sorry?” she raised her eyebrows, leaning away from the van. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know, come. With me. On the trip,” he explained. “it should be ready to go tomorrow. Would you like to come with me?”

She stared at him. “I hardly know you. I don’t even know your name.”

“Exactly. What would be the fun in it if you did?”

River bit her lip. “Where are you planning to go?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“How old are you?”

“I’ve lost track.”

“You can see how this isn’t building a trusting relationship between us,” she said. She looked back out across the street, but of course it was as empty as skeleton bones. “Why would you want me to go with you?” she asked. Her voice had gotten smaller.

“Because,” he replied, “You’re here, I’m here, you seem like a person I would like to get to know, and also,” he rolled out from under the car and looped the screwdriver into a stray blonde curl. “Your hair is fantastic.”

River leaned back, her eyes on the ground. “Thank you,” she said.

“So, is that a yes?”

“I still hardly know you.”

“But if you did, then where would be the fun in it? Don't you see?” he looked up at her through his curtain of hair. “Who else would ride a bicycle covered in lights down an empty street at one in the morning unless they wanted to go somewhere? And I promise the van is more comfortable in the long run.”

“Wait, one in the morning?” she asked. She had left her phone and watch in her bedroom. “I have to leave,” she said, turning towards her bicycle.

“But you haven’t given me an answer yet!” John called to her.

She turned around, her arms crossed. She took in every detail of the boy on the ground before her. He wore dark pants and black lace-up boots. A pair of burgundy braces hung loose around his hips, and he had several piercings in one ear. And that wasn’t even counting the ink.

“What do your tattoos mean?” she asked.

He glanced down at his arms, as though surprised to see them there. “Well, these,” he began, indicating the collection of tally marks scrawled along one arm, “Each of these represents a friend. People I’ve loved, lost. Good people. This one, the sunflower, is because my favourite artist is Vincent van Gogh, the phone box is because my family is British, and this one…” he stopped, staring at the little Saturn on the back of his hand. “I don’t really know yet.”

He looked up at River. “Why do you ask?”

For some reason, she couldn’t help but smile, even though the cold made her gums hurt. “I’ll think about it,” she replied, running to her bicycle before she could see his reaction.  
“How will you tell me your answer?” he called after her as she raced down the street.

“I know where you live! I’ll come to you!” she shouted back, laughing, even though there was no joke. Her legs pumped as she shot past the little houses, and her breath burned like acid in her throat. Her fingers cramped around the handlebars, her eyes flicked past the silent homes as she raced on and on, until the Beatles became crickets and she was alone, a flickering candle in the windowsill. And there was the sky above, flat and plump, and so close that she could reach out and break the glass dome with her bare hands.


End file.
